Author Archives: talebender

Makin’ It Up!

Here is a poem from my latest anthology of prose and poetry, a collection of more than forty whimsical and topical essays and poems I’ve written as a member of the Pelican Pens writers’ group in South Florida.

Just released today, the book is entitled—

Makin’ It Up As I Go! Tales of a Flagrant Fabulist

It Just Isn’t Fair!
[prompt: the unfairness of life]

“It’s not fair!” I declare, disgruntled and mad,
“Why’s everything good now thought to be bad?
I’m angry about it, but what can I do?
How can I hang on to what I once knew?

“Why doesn’t Santa Claus still come to town,
With his reindeer and elves and fat belly round?
What’s wrong with allowing this old man to think
That he’ll bring me my toys, then be gone in a blink?

“And where’s the tooth fairy, who came in the night
To check ‘neath my pillow, but stayed out of sight,
And left a wee gift in exchange for my tooth?
Why doesn’t she come, now that I’m not a youth?

“What’s happened to Cupid, the elf with the bow
And his love-dipped arrows all ready to go?
Oh, where is he now each Valentines Day?
Did someone nefarious take him away? 

“And how ‘bout the bunny with powerful legs
Who came every Easter with my favourite eggs?
It’s like he’s been cancelled by somebody vile,
For I haven’t seen him in such a long while.

“And whence the wee people, their shamrocks so green,
Hiding their gold in pots all unseen
At the end of the rainbows, their colours agleam?
Are leprechauns now nothing more than a dream?

“And last but not least, the sandman so wise,
Who came every night to shut down my eyes,
Is no longer part of my oft-sleepless night.
Have they taken him, too, out of sheer spite?

“It’s not fair!” I exclaim, both sad and chagrined,
“That somebody somewhere chose to rescind
My wonderful friends of childhood back there.
I hate it!” I cry.  “It just isn’t fair!”

The book is available for purchase at this safe website—

https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/precept

Making the Bed

~ CLICK ON THE TITLE IN THE BODY OF THIS EMAIL NOTICE TO READ MY BLOG POST IN ITS NATURAL SETTING ~

Do you make your bed right after you get up in the morning?  Or after you’ve washed and dressed?  Or at all?

I do, and have for almost eighty years.  It’s the first thing I do after stumbling out of bed—or maybe the second if the bathroom beckons urgently.  The only exception to the rule is if my wife is still abed when I awake, but that is not a frequent occurrence.

It was my mother who got me started, around the time I was five years old if memory serves.  She was a stickler for cleanliness and neatness, and I, being the eldest of five siblings, was her first opportunity to test her mothering skills.

Her instructions were quite specific, and I still follow them to this day.  Begin by brushing wrinkles out of the bottom sheet with my hand, then tuck in its corners—no contoured sheets in those bygone days.  Next, pull the top sheet up to neck-level, then do the same with the blankets on top of it (usually two in number), smoothing them as I go.  Plump up my pillow and straighten the pillowcase, then centre it below the headboard.  And finally, drape the bedspread atop everything, ensuring it hangs evenly off the floor on both sides of the bed, and at the bottom, then tuck the top neatly under the front edge of the pillow.

Complicating matters was the fact that my bedcover had three wide, brown stripes running top to bottom on its beige base colour, and woe betide me if those stripes didn’t run parallel to the edges of the bed when I was finished.  I can remember mornings when I was sent back upstairs from the kitchen two or three times to remake the bed before I was allowed to start eating.  I hated cold oatmeal, so it didn’t take me long to learn the valuable lesson that a job worth doing is worth doing right…the first time!

My brother, three years younger than I, eventually faced the same challenges.  I can still see that little boy studying me intently, trying to mimic my every move on the twin bed that sat opposite mine.  He didn’t like cold oatmeal either!

My mother’s bed, shared with my father, was always made up immaculately, of course, except on washing day, when she’d strip the bed down to the mattress, turn it or flip it if she thought it necessary, then remake the bed with a clean set of sheets.

The day came when my brother and I had to do the same with our beds, another learning exercise we didn’t enjoy.  Eventually, so too did my sisters, but I always thought they were given more leeway than my brother and I received.

I’m sure I asked my mother more than once why we had to go through this exercise every day.  “We’re gonna hafta un-make it tonight!” I probably whined.

As best I recall, her reasoning ran like this: making my bed when I got up meant that, no matter what else I might do that day, I’d have accomplished something!

In the beginning, I probably had to ask what that big word meant, but I must have got the gist pretty quickly.  My mother was all about accomplishment, achievement, the attaining of goals, and she imbued her five children with that attitude.

Nevertheless, now that I’ve attained a ripe, old age, the question could be asked why I persist to this day in making my bed.  The answer might be habit, I suppose, and an aversion to change, for I do value predictability and stability.  Or perhaps I’m secretly trying to please her still, long after she has left the stage.  Maybe I possess the same inner drive for order and perfection that defined her, that impelled her.  Whatever the reason, it seems a little late in the game for me to learn to love a messy, unmade bed.

The bed I make up now is quite different from the one I started with, of course.  A king-size model, it requires me to climb atop it to straighten the sheets and blankets in the middle, where I can’t reach them while standing on the floor.  Manhandling the bedcover into place—now called a sham, a coverlet, a counterpane—is a man-sized chore, even as my man size is diminishing steadily.

Rather than one pillow, or even two, to plump and place, there are ten in all—two my wife and I rest our heads on overnight, two larger ones in fancy slipcases to be placed in front of those, and six smaller ones to place on the bed, not haphazardly, but precisely, symmetrically, and balanced.

There are days when I feel I need a nap after pulling it all together, but alas, I lack the will to pull the covers down when I’ve just made them up.

So, I soldier on, making my bed every morning, always glad when I enter the bedroom later in the day to see the display of my fidelity to the lessons I was taught.  And best of all, it allows me to think of my mother every day, to thank her for the lessons she insisted I learn.

I must confess, though—I have never learned to fancy cold oatmeal!  

Another Excellent Read!

TEN BILLION DOLLARS AWARDED BY COURTS TO TWENTY-ONE ONTARIO FIRST NATIONS!

In the latest novel in my acclaimed Maggie Keiller/Derek Sloan crime series, the dramatic consequences of this actual treaty settlement unfold in Port Huntington, a small resort town on the shores of Georgian Bay.  And once again, Maggie and Derek become inextricably involved in personal grievances boiling to the surface among various interests, involving vandalism, extortion, violence, and murder.

Be sure to read this exciting story, available now for purchase at—

https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/precept

You will find complete information on my published books by pressing the My Books tab at the top of this page.

As always, thanks for reading my blog, and for your interest in my writing!

Singin’ the Songs

Regular readers here will know of my love for music in my life, whether performed by professional musicians in a concert hall or robust amateurs at a party.  I have genres I prefer, of course, as do most people, and I generally fancy instrumental versions of favourite songs to vocal renditions.  I find them more soothing, more conducive to creative thought and activity.

Most of my listening time occurs when I’m writing, as is the case right now, penning this essay, my head clad in earphones.  My first and abiding love is classical music—likely due the influence of my father, who often fell asleep with me on my bed at night as we listened to radio broadcasts of the great symphonies.  He frequently had stories to accompany the music, too, which made it all the more special.

When I started school, one of my favourite activities was song-time, when the teacher would teach me and my classmates a new song.  Not all of us were thrilled, of course, but I was ever enthralled.  To this day, I love to join in the enthusiastic chorusing of the old songs with a group of friends.

And I can still remember (and occasionally sing to myself) some of those silly, little ditties we were taught in kindergarten and grade 1—

Your pail and shovel and wheelbarrow bring,
Let’s plant us a garden this morning in spring.
Dig little trenches, pull out all the weeds,
Pour in some water, and drop in the seeds.

Or this one—

Little yellow bird, little yellow bird,
Come flying with me.
We will build us a cozy corner
In the old apple tree.

There was one I particularly liked, although the lyrics saddened me—

“Come away,” sang the river to the leaves on the trees.
“Let me take you on a journey, and the world you will see.”
So, the leaves gently falling from the trees on the shore
Float away on the river, to come home nevermore.

It might have been the final phrase that bothered me, that they would never find their way home.  But the melody was lovely.

Making friends was very important to one just starting school, so this song had special meaning—

Make new friends, but keep the old.
One is silver, and the other gold.

At my advanced age now, the inherent truth of that sentiment has been borne out countless times.

Our earliest foray into the magic of the French language began with this song about a skylark, Alouette—

Alouette, gentille alouette,
Alouette, je te plumerai.
Je te plumerai la tête,
Je te plumerai la tête,
Et la tête, et la tête,
Alouette, Alouette
Oh-h-h-h-h...
Alouette, gentille alouette,
Alouette, je te plumerai.

There were several verses to this one, substituting le bec, le cou, les ailes, le dos, les pattes, and la queue for la tête, and the chorus had to include every one of them as they were introduced.  But we loved the challenge!

As little ones, we were always encouraged to be active and happy, and to let people know how we felt.  This song allowed us a way to do just that—

If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!
If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!
If you’re happy and you know it, and you really want to show it,
If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!

There were many variations on clapping your hands as we sang that one, and all of them caused much joy and laughter.

One of the songs I especially liked was this one, seeking love and happiness—

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,
You make me happy when skies are gray.
You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.
Please don’t take my sunshine away.

Over these past few years, I’ve been fortunate enough to spend many happy hours singing with a men’s chorus, and a fuller version of this is still one of our staples.  I’ve included a video clip that you will surely enjoy—

It’s seventy years and more since I learned many of these songs, and I’m amazed by the joy they still bring me.  After all this time, there are fewer things more fun than singin’ the songs.

A Musical Gift of Love

And here she is, the singing rage, Miss Patti Page, with her latest hit, Tennessee Waltz…

The year was 1951, and my brother and I were home in bed with chickenpox, the longest week we’d ever spent in our young lives.  To help our mother avoid losing her mind as she coped with our whimpering and complaining, Dad had moved the large, Motorola console radio from the living room to our bedroom.  It was heavy, and I still remember his red face, and the huffing and puffing, that accompanied the move down the long hallway to our room.  It took a while to adjust the antenna, too, to ensure we got proper reception.

With the entertainment that radio provided during those seemingly-endless days in bed—together with toys, comics, children’s books, and board games—my brother and I managed to allow Mom some brief periods of respite.

All that week, we fell asleep at night to broadcasts of The Lone Ranger, Mark Trail, Amos ‘n’ Andy, and The Shadow.  Having that radio in our bedroom was almost enough to make us wish the chickenpox would hang around a while longer.  Almost!

The bedroom was small, with one dormer window, and our twin beds were separated by a table whose top was taken up by a small lamp and two coasters, upon which sat our water glasses.  On the two shelves underneath, one for each of us, our respective playthings were stored…my brother’s haphazardly, mine orderly.

The first time we heard Tennessee Waltz on the radio, my brother immediately piped up, “That’s my favourite song!”, thus preventing me from claiming it.  Not to be undone, however, I quickly claimed Patti Page’s other big hit, Mockin’ Bird Hill, as my property.  Every time either song came on the air, our bedroom would become eerily quiet as we listened avidly, singing along silently in our tousled heads.

When we eventually dared to accompany the singer aloud, neither of us was allowed to sing the other’s song.  Singing along in our heads was permitted, but by mutual consent, our live performances were strictly proscribed.

As if to ensure our claim to our song would not be usurped by a treacherous brother, each of us would reiterate our ownership every time our favourite came on.  “Tennessee Waltz is my song!” my brother would insist, and for good measure one day, he added, “An’ Patti Page is my favourite singer!”

He was in love with this woman we had never seen, and truth be told, so was I.

By some unspoken rule, however, we both understood that the singer herself could not be claimed as one’s own, and so the next time Mockin’ Bird Hill came on, I chirped, “That’s my favourite song, an’ Patti Page is my favourite singer!”  And, while our mother was in the room one day, I added, “She’s prob’ly as pretty as Mom!”

Mom smiled at that.

But my brother immediately protested, “No, she’s not!  Mom is prettier!”

Our mother smiled at that, too.

The chickenpox finally ran their course, of course, and life went back to normal.  But to this day, I can still sing the entire Tennessee Waltz, and all three verses and the chorus of Mockin’ Bird Hill.  I’m probably off-key in a few spots here and there, but it’s seventy-five years ago that I learned them, so that’s not too shabby.

My brother is gone now, as is Patti Page, but whenever I sing those two songs, usually just to myself, out of filial loyalty and respect for those childhood rituals, I always kick off Tennessee Waltz with the preface, “my brother’s favourite song”.  And if he were still here to hear me, he’d probably say, “Damn right!”

And I know he’d settle back and listen politely as I announce, “An’ here’s my favourite song, Mockin’ Bird Hill!” before launching into it. I won’t do that here, of course, but here’s the lady herself to sing it.

We were lucky, my brother and I, to have shared that musical gift of love.

The Lonely, Silvery Rain

The thirteenth novel in my Maggie Keiller/Derek Sloan crime series will be published later this year, titled The Lonely, Silvery Rain. Here is an excerpted chapter from that book, slightly modified for this blog-post. If you have read previous books in the series, you will recognize the two characters here.

When Old Scratch, as Senator Nicholl disdainfully referred to death, came calling for the final time on a warm, drizzly, late-morning in October, he found Nicholl dozing in his favourite rocking chair on the wide, open-air verandah of his century home.  The rain was thrumming on the shingled roof, dripping off the overhanging eaves, spilling like a shimmering, crystalline waterfall to the gardens below.

Before his spectral visitor crept in, Nicholl had been engrossed in a pleasant dream, delivering a stem-winder of a stump speech on another political campaign trail, surrounded by a throng of friends and constituents in someone’s farmyard.  Balancing on a rickety, upside-down milking-bucket, he stood above everyone, so even those at the far reaches of the crowd could see him.  He felt he’d never been in finer voice until, gearing up for the customary, full-throated culmination to his peroration, he discovered he’d forgotten what he was about to say.  The shock was profound.

Groping vainly in his dream to remember the remarks eluding him, his mouth continued moving, though no sound emerged.  Then, without warning, the bottom abruptly dropped away beneath him, as if someone had kicked the bucket out from under his feet.  The world whirled and spun dizzyingly as he toppled, flinging his arms out in a futile attempt to catch himself.  Despite the confusion and fear engulfing him, however, he still tried to finish, a campaigner to the end.

Wait!  My speech!  I’m purt’ near done…

But the dream turned nightmarish, and a misty, reddish haze descended across his eyes, and then…and then…

Senator Milford Nicholl, the simple, hometown boy-made-good, eased back in his rocking chair, sighed a fare-thee-well, and went to his eternal rest.

The many well-wishers who stopped in later that afternoon found Gloria, his wife of sixty years, shaken but composed, unbelieving but accepting, sad but relieved that her husband’s travails were over.

“He knew he was on borrowed time,” she told them softly, “and I could tell he knew his days were winding down.  A wife always knows these things…”  Her throat filled up, and she stopped to wipe away tears. 

“Just a few days ago,” she whispered after a moment or two, summoning a small smile, “we talked about the possibility of one of us dying.  And you know Milly’s sense of humour.  He said something to the effect that he wasn’t afraid to die, he just didn’t want to be there when it happens.”  

The mourners laughed at that, and a few shared more of the homespun witticisms they remembered flowing from Nicholl’s febrile mind.  Eventually, Gloria told them she really would like time alone.  “I’ll pray a little,” she said, “cry a little, laugh a little.  There’ll be time enough later to reminisce some more.  And I’ll call you if I need to, I promise.”

As everyone took their leave, Gloria waved from the verandah, then sat and rocked slowly in her husband’s favourite chair, his abandoned walker standing forsaken beside it.  The rain was gentler now, but its sibilant pit-a-patting on the roof was still audible, its runoff still dripping off the eaves into the lush gardens below, covered by sodden, autumn-hued leaves.  The unseasonably warm breeze caressed her, enveloping her in a blanket of solace.

She already understood she’d be missing Milly constantly from now on—his irrepressibility, his cornball turns-of-phrase, his devotion to the community—and most of all, his love for her, his very presence.  She counted herself lucky to have been his partner and to have known such happiness.

Her grief over losing him would linger long, of course.  She knew mourning is not something that can be quantified or measured by time.  But at this particular moment, she was at peace with his passing, attuned to the happy memories she would cherish forever, resigned to the loneliness she knew would envelop her from time to time.  They were all part of everyone’s journey through life.

But for right now, she was snuggled in Milly’s chair, at one with the inevitable rhythms of life and death, at one with herself, her soul in harmony with the comforting cadence of the rain.

The lonely, silvery rain.

Love, Through Their Eyes

The weekly prompt from my Florida writers group was to write a piece about seeing things ‘through their eyes’, and this is my offering—

Two short poems, each exquisitely written, capture exactly—exactly—how I feel about this brief moment in time I know as my life, about the relationship I have with the love of my life, and about what will happen when I am gone.

The first, When You Are Old, by William Butler Yeats, the greatest of the Irish poets, portrays a woman through the eyes of her departed husband, as he speaks of his love for her, even beyond death, and where she might find him—

When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book
And slowly read, and dream, of the soft look 
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced atop the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

I find that sentiment so uplifting, so reassuring, that love, triumphant over death, is waiting ‘midst a crowd of stars.

I no longer believe, as I did as a child, in life eternal, in the idea of earth and heaven, the now and hereafter.  Rather, I believe the life-force presently empowering me—what I might call a soul—is but a fragment of the energy that fuels our expanding universe, a spark of light presently encased in my mortal being.  And when I, the shell that hosts the spark, will have finished my course, when I have expired, that life-force animating me will simply rejoin the universe.  It will be as if I am carrying on beyond death, but with no memory of my life—just as I have no memory now of what came before my birth.

The mortal I shall die, but my life-force will not, for if it did, the universe would shrink at the loss of that fragment of energy.  Science tells us, however, the universe is expanding, not shrinking, so it must be that no energy is ever lost.

But where will my immortal life-force go, and in what form, I wonder?  And what of my love whom I will have left behind?  Happily, I find an answer to these questions in the second of the poems I number among my favourites.  Written by David Jones, a Liverpool poet, from his collection titled Love and Space Dust, I find it moving and profound—

And in the end
I will seek you
Out amongst the stars.

The space dust 
Of me will
Whisper ”I love you”
Into the infinity
Of the universe.

So, no life eternal, but something better—love eternal.  According to these two poets, as seen through their eyes, the pilgrim soul who shares this life with me will find my spark of energy—my soul—waiting somewhere in the stars for her, calling I love you into the void until she hears me.

And I choose to believe she will hear me.

David Jones: https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/5241391.David_Jones

W. B. Yeats: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/william-butler-yeats

A Cottage Christmas

Since retiring, my wife and I spend every Christmas at our Florida home.  Usually, one or both of our daughters will come down, with husbands and children in tow, to spend the holiday with us.

Friends often ask us if we miss Christmas in the snowy north.  I offer a vigorous, “No!”, and when they ask why, I tell them the story of our ill-fated Christmas at the cottage.

Our daughters were eleven and ten that year, when friends, who had decided to spend their traditional twelve days on a sunny, southern beach, invited us to use their cottage for our celebration—preparing for Santa’s arrival, skiing and skating in a winter wonderland, and just relaxing.  We jumped at the chance, little realizing what lay in store for us.

I should have known all would not be idyllic when our friends gave us five pages of notes, detailing what we’d have to do when we arrived at the retreat in the woods.  There were instructions for opening and closing the place, turning on the water system when we arrived, draining it when we left, using the fireplace, enjoying the snowmobile, shoveling snow off the roof, removing the occupied mousetraps—in short, a whole lot of things that could go wrong.

They left us their car to use, much larger than our own, a fully-equipped but much-travelled station wagon that had been around the track more than a few times.  On the day of our departure, I discovered that the rear tailgate, the sort that was supposed to open two ways, down like a truck tailgate or out like a car door, wouldn’t open at all.  Consequently, I had to load all our gear, including skis and poles, through the rear window, which could still be powered down.  As each armload went in, I had to clamber over the rear seat to pull the stuff forward.  I was delighted, as you might imagine, with the challenge.

We took to the road, full of anticipation for our family Christmas at the cottage, on the very day that the first freezing rainstorm of the season hit the area.  That cheered me immensely.

With the six of us aboard—I, my wife and two daughters, plus two dogs in the rear, trampling and drooling on all the packed items—the car windows steamed up almost immediately.  They remained that way for the duration of the four hours it took us to complete the two-hour drive.  Nobody spoke out loud during the final hour!

We arrived, finally, to be greeted by a winter wonderland.  The deep snow, now covered in a slippery mantle by the freezing rain, sparkled and glinted in the twilight.  As promised in our five pages of instructions, the driveway had been plowed just far enough off the township road to allow us to park the car.  The walk from there to the cottage was just what we had expected—arduous, but exhilarating.

The snowmobile was right where the notes said it would be.  But to my chagrin, it wouldn’t start!  In spite of my repeated (and somewhat profane) encouragement, it would not come to life.  Thus, we had to lug in all our gear by hand, twelve trips back and forth between the cottage and the car, dragging the heavy items behind us in a large snow-scoop, toboggan style.

Oh, what fun we had!

Once inside, with everyone unpacking and sorting our supplies, I turned my attention to turning on the water.  The notes our friends had left me were very detailed on this particular chore.  The pumphouse in the basement was a tangle of pipes and faucets—my friend does his own plumbing—all tagged and colour-coded to ensure compliance with the proper way of operating the system.  Without my notes, I’d have been totally lost; with them, I was merely overwhelmed.  Nevertheless, I followed the steps as written, praying fervently all would go as planned.  And it did….at least at first.

Some twenty minutes after our initial rejoicing over running water, the dishwasher sprang a raging leak from somewhere underneath.  I was able to turn off its feeder-faucet before too much damage was done, and I even managed to find the source of the problem—a burst pipe.  Because I was unable to fix the leak, the dishwasher remained inoperable for the duration of our stay.

Eventually, everything was done.  The food was safely stored away, our bags were in the proper bedrooms, the deck and walkway were shovelled clear of snow, and the Christmas tree that had journeyed north on the roof of the car was standing, fully decorated, in the living room.  At last, we began to enjoy our Christmas holiday. 

Of course, we couldn’t ski because the rain that accompanied us north continued to fall, washing most of the snow away in one day.  Nor could we go skating on the lake, because the milder temperatures that came with the rain turned the ice to slush.

If it hadn’t been for the decorations strung around the interior of the cottage, and the sound of the old, familiar carols, we wouldn’t have known we were enjoying a Christmas interlude.  With all the mud, it was like a spring holiday—until the last day, that is.  Then, about five hours before we’d planned to pack the car for home, the snows returned with a vengeance.

So again, thanks to the immobile snowmobile, we had to trudge through knee-deep, new-fallen snow, from cottage to car, packing up everything we had to take home.  I cursed every step!

I could hardly wait until the next time our friends offered us the use of their cottage when they weren’t going to be there.  I planned to torch the place.

Of, By, and For

From my Canadian vantage point, the longstanding myth of American exceptionalism appears to have been exposed.  The Benighted States of America has signalled it is no exception after all, as it falls into line behind nations like Brazil, Hungary, and Russia on the slippery path to corporate, fascist oligarchy.

Those citizens who lament this turn might blame the result of the recent election on an ill-informed electorate, but the truth is the voters were not uninformed, misinformed, or disinformed.  Well in advance of voting day, the winning party composed and published its agenda, Project 2025, hanging it out there for all to see.  So, any lamentations might more aptly be directed toward apathy or hubris on the part of too many Americans.

And of course, there’s the fact that more voters are celebrating the result than bemoaning it, at least according to the popular vote count.  In that sense, the will of the people prevailed, just as it’s supposed to.

It appears so far that the election process unfolded as designed, with no accusations or evidence of widespread glitches or fraud, despite the plethora of different voting procedures across the fifty states.  That process—which, by deliberate decision on the part of the landed gentry known as the Founding Fathers—leaves the final choosing of the chief executive in the hands, not of the people, but a select group of electors from each state.  America is still exceptional in this, I suppose, given it’s the only nation in the world to rely on an Electoral College.

Simplistically stated, democracy implies that majority rules, no matter how slim that majority.  In a tri-cameral system—executive, legislative, and judicial—it is rare that one party will capture the Presidency and both branches of the legislature.  But at the time of writing, the Presidency, the House of Representatives, and the Senate have apparently fallen to one party in this recent election.  The popular vote count, although not overwhelmingly one-sided, was decisive.

It’s worth remembering that democracy is not ordained, merely proposed and tried.  Churchill called it “the worst form of government, except for all the others.”  Still, it endures for now, and should certainly not be dismissed because it yields an electoral result not satisfactory to a segment of the population.

Whether this recent result is good or bad is based upon one’s point of view.  My own opinion is that it bodes ill for the future of the nation, and perhaps the world, but my opinion matters little.  American politicians are fond of proclaiming, “This is who we are as Americans!”, or conversely, “This is not who the American people are!”  Although neither statement is accurate, both can be apt in any given instance, depending on how Americans’ behaviour matches or clashes with those politicians’ ideological leanings.  For example, public demonstrations or protests are often acclaimed and disparaged simultaneously by opposing political factions.  At the very least, any occasion represents only who some Americans are and who other Americans are not.

One thing for sure is true, however: the entire population of 346-million+ cannot rightly be dubbed ‘the American people’.  Across all spectra—political, social, economic, religious, ethnic, gender, rural/urban—Americans, like other nations’ citizens, comprise a distinct array of diversity, not a homogeneous collective.  Americans, unsurprisingly, do not all think alike or cherish the same values. 

Nevertheless, it is clear the recent election was decided by the American people who were eligible to vote—those who exercised their right and those who did not, those who swung one way and those who went the other.  Democracy in action.

Like it or not, people’s understanding as to whether something is right or wrong, good or bad, is inevitably shaped by the outcome of any election.  Perhaps there is a true right and a true wrong in the moral universe, but it’s how those concepts are filtered through an ideological lens that matters most.  Did America decide wisely on its future this time, or foolishly?  Is liberal democracy the judicious choice, or corporate fascism?  Is an imperial Presidency the better model, or a checks-and-balances structure?  And does the worm always turn?

To paraphrase a timeworn sports adage, any nation is what its voters say it is, and it remains so until its voters say it’s something else.  That, I submit, is governance by and of the people.  Whether or not America’s recent election results prove to be for the people will likely become apparent over the next couple of years.

Ultimately, we all get the government we deserve.  America is no exception.

Young Fella

Around the world, it’s variously known as Armistice Day or Remembrance Day, but stateside we call it Veterans Day.  It honours the memory of those who sacrificed their lives defending freedom, commemorating what was intended to be a lasting peace, signed at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918.

I’m here today with almost a thousand of my fellow-vets for a luncheon to remember the fallen.  We’re gathered in a mess-hall similar to those we knew in long-ago days in far-away lands, but under happier circumstances now.  We range in age, I would guess, from mid-forties to late-eighties, drawn from the full military spectrum—dogface, swabbie, flyboy, grunt—jealously proud of our own branch of service, but united by our sworn allegiance to our nation.

Most of us are in uniform, some resplendent in dress whites or blues, others less splendid in khaki or camo fatigues.  But in nearly every case, the clothing strains to contain bodies once in fighting-trim, now overfed and flabby.  Insignias of rank and medals awarded adorn almost every uniform, but no one pays undue attention to either, having long ago taken them for granted.

What is never taken for granted, however, is the privilege of being here today, when so many of our former comrades cannot.  The cash-bar, which had opened an hour before lunch, had been well-used, and many a story of glory and despair had been shared over a pint or two, as has become the custom at our yearly gatherings.

The ample lunch buffet we finished before the speeches began was leagues better than the swill we’d all had to choke down in mess-halls similar to this one back in the day.  And even the speeches…well, let me just say, the speeches were a vast improvement over what we used to be subjected to from the brass in the field.  Today’s remarks from a few of our ranking members were more reflective, halting and poignant almost, as if we all knew this would be the last parade for many of our number.

We’re on our feet now for the national anthem, to be played by a band of eager, young cadets.  None of us sings it aloud, of course, as if to do so might constitute an unacceptable breach of discipline in the ranks.  But we know the words by heart. 

As we raise our arms in salute, a movement catches my eye at a table to my left.  An old soldier, a man I hadn’t noticed earlier, has struggled to his feet, is saluting with difficulty.  He’s dressed in an olive-drab tunic, too big now for his shrunken frame, a beret tucked under one of his epaulets, his blouse drooping from sagging shoulders.  I figure he has to be in his late-nineties at least.  His body sways as the anthem swells, and he trembles as if palsied.  I wonder why the men on either side of him, officers both, do not offer assistance, but they appear not to notice his distress.

I turn my attention back to the band at the front, unwilling to bear witness if the old man should fall.  When the anthem’s final notes die away, a lone bugler steps forward, a young woman immaculate in dress grays, and with divine precision, she raises the instrument to her lips to play The Last Post.

As its first plaintive, mournful notes sound forth, I turn to see if the old soldier is bearing up.  To my surprise, he is gone, and a much younger man stands in his place.  Clad similarly in olive-drabs, he is taller, stronger, more steadfast—a marked contrast to the older man who, I assume, had been assisted from his place at the table.  Unlike the rest of us, our arms still raised in salute, our chins held as high as we can bear, the younger man’s head is bowed, his right hand clasped to his heart.

When the bugler finishes, when the last horn has sounded, the room is suffused in silence for a few moments.  But then the slow hum of conversation begins again as people make ready to leave, and the air is filled with raucous laughter and shouted farewells.  As might be expected, our retreat is anything but militarily precise.  Rather, the withdrawal is hesitant, rambling, reluctant, each of us adopting a slow shuffle to delay our departure. 

On impulse, I detour on my way toward the door to walk behind the table where I’d seen those two soldiers.  All the place-name cards that had been propped on small stands on the table are gone, of course, purloined by their namesakes as souvenirs of another fine get-together—all save one, that is, the one I was hoping to find.  It sits right where the two soldiers had been standing, embossed in flowing script, black letters crisp against the white cardboard background.

Adjusting my glasses on my nose, I lean closer to find out who those men were.

HERE MAY SIT AN UNKNOWN SOLDIER
A FALLEN COMRADE KNOWN BUT TO GOD

I straighten slowly, breath seeping from my lungs as I realize the enormity of the vision I’d been privileged to see.  With all the strength and grace I can muster, I brace to full attention and salute the dead, as respectfully as I can manage in my aged state.

“Thank you, old man!” I whisper, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. 

But then, suddenly aware of my misunderstanding, I correct myself.  Not a single one of our unknown comrades had died as an old man.

“Thank you, young fella!” I say out loud this time.

And not until I am alone in the cavernous mess-hall do I lower my salute.